Scars (Part II of J.H. White's Puss in Boots)

Chapter Three: The Mercenary

The Cráneo Ensangrentado Thief Den, Nine Years Earlier

Scars concentrated. He was deep in a game of poker with a man, and the price if he lost was five hundred pesos. He stared the man down for a few seconds, and then looked at his deck. All aces. He was about to be five hundred pesos richer. The man threw down his deck. Terrible cards, all of them. Clearly, he was an amateur. Scars had learned to play when his mother was ill and he had to win games at the bar to afford medicine for her. But that was before; now he would use this money to impress women and buy leche.

Scars pretended to look forlorn, and then put down his deck and laughed in the man's face. "You're out of five hundred, hermano!" he jeered in his face.

The man reached into his belt and planted the muzzle of a gun in between Scars' eyes. "How about double or nothing?" the man asked. "Double, you get the money. Nothing, you don't have a face no more."

Scars responded by slamming the man's head into the table, taking his dagger, and stabbing him in the back repeatedly until he fell limply on the wooden ground. He then reached into the man's back pocket and retrieved the cash he had earned fairly. "Thanks, amigo," he said triumphantly.

That was when he saw her.

A dark-furred female cat, sitting at a table, by herself. Even though he thought it was stupid, it was love at first sight.

SHE WAS LOOKING AT HIM! He swore under his breath. He wasn't worthy of her, he told himself. He couldn't do this.

Yes, he could. He killed dozens of people daily. Surely she would find that daring. As slowly as he could, he walked over to her, and leaned on the side of her table.

He tried to talk, but the words that came out were unintelligible. She grimaced at him and then threw him against the wall. He landed on an empty table that still hadn't been cleaned up from the last two patrons, and the bottles on the desk shattered under the weight of his back. He felt like his entire body was bleeding, and he groaned.

He passed out, and when he woke, two men were driving knives into his arms and into the ground so he couldn't get up. He swore loudly, and almost let the darkness take him again as he saw the blood pooling around him. He didn't, though. The girl had beaten him and probably sold him to these people, and now somebody was going to pay.

With all his strength, he took one knife out of his arm and the blood leaking out quickened. He threw it at one of the men, and it impaled their forehead, coming out the other side. The entire street was now a literal bloodbath.

He slowly ripped the other knife out and got up, cutting the other man's legs off and finishing the job by driving the blade into his skull.

He had loved her. He couldn't love somebody who had tried to kill him. He was going to find her and repay her failed attempt at taking him out.

But he was going to succeed.

****

Scars loved alleyways. He couldn't even count how many people he had murdered in an alleyway. But this time, he wasn't meeting somebody here to run them through. He needed information. The female cat's name and location. He had paid the anonymous informant half of the poker money, lying and saying that was all he had.

A figure came down from the roof. He or she wore a hood, and in the darkness their face wasn't visible.

"Let's make this quick. I have to go kill a guy," the figure said. It was a woman.

"I could do that for you if you return my money," Scars said, always trying to negotiate.

"No, gracias. I like to do the dirty work myself, thank you very much. Now, then, what do you need from me?"

"The location of a female mercenary. She had black fur, and that's all I know," Scars said.

Everything became eerily quiet.

"Okay. I'll tell you. But there's one thing you should know first."

"And what is that?"

"You're talking to her," she said, pulling off her hood and sweeping his legs out from under him.